Signed, Sealed, Delivered, I'm Yours
by Sresla
Summary: A delivery, a discussion, a detention and a deception. Contains characters transplanted from Sanctum of the Exalted.
1. Signed

Every wheeze and groan Ship made as it settled during the airlock's cycling connection made Cerran regret not taking the time to stop at Moat's workshop. The finicky Ugnaught couldn't stand the sight of him, but appreciated the XS Freighter on the same level he did, and so worked on it for cost – and the gratis export of lenkin reeds back to Gentes every few months. It was always a dead drop and he never met with any of Moat's clan, which was probably for the best, if one alien could be said to represent an entire species.

"Just hold together for a few clicks mister, and we'll be at Nar Shaddaa before you know it."

"May I broadcast our expected arrival to Deucalon Spaceport?"

If a computer could be said to sound anticipatory, Ship definitely qualified. "You know it, buddy. We're upgrading your identification protocols too. You're still not forgiven for letting Skavak on board and taking you out for a joy ride."

"Former association dictated-"

"Yeah, we've been over this." The shipboard computer had actually babbled itself to incoherency when it was reunited with its captain. "No one but me from now on. Acknowledge? No command override supersedes. If it exists in your databanks – if even the potential is there - delete it and any associated subroutines."

"Acknowledged, Captain." Cerran thought the ship was finished, until the com unit spoke again. "Query: Human Corso Riggs is currently classified as passenger. Destination?"

Corso. Corso was a problem. One he couldn't cope with at the moment and Ship, attuned to its captain's moods, did not repeat its question when he didn't answer.

A warm female voice, without the accented, Imperial-esque overtones of his freighter announced, "Airlock cycle complete. Welcome to the Tython Orbital Station, gentlebeing. Shuttle departures can be found–"

He waved his hand impatiently in front of the door sensor; Ship obligingly shut the standard greeting off. It'd go on for about five minutes and then repeat the exact same thing in four other languages – even gargling Huttese, although he knew no Hutt had ever slithered onto the planet's surface. He'd heard it many times before. Maybe, if he was lucky, today would be the last time. '_Because that's the kind of luck I have. Lucky Cerran, terror of the dejarik tables. I'll just keep pretending I'm not well and truly forked._'

His hands were sweaty and he wiped them on his pants before placing them on the door's handles and giving them a spin. A blast of air reeking of oil and scorched fuel fumes enveloped him as he stepped forward.

Someone was waiting outside.

'_Stars._' He forced himself to casually disembark, as if his brother's appearance was expected. "Vosh. I'm flattered. You missed me so much, you couldn't wait for me topside? Where are Garik and Ero? Then it'd be just like old times."

Vosh was too well disciplined to let it show in his aura, not that Cerran could have told one way or the other if his jab hit its mark. Another Miraluka could have told his brother's mood with a long, creepy stare, seeing those dark flashes of bitterness or hatred, assuming they were roughly equal in terms of Force sensitivity. He was lucky he could distinguish the other man from the colorless backdrop of the corridor; such finite perceptions were well beyond him. Still, he'd managed to make all his siblings prickle angrily at one time or another, bright enough that even he could see the flares. He'd take his small victories where he could find them.

"I've been sent to accompany you. There were concerns when you didn't… arrive on time."

'_Not my choice._' It was another thing he'd "thank" Skavak for, when he finally tracked that worthless piece of _poodoo_ down. He'd kick the rock he'd crawled under so hard, it'd become some unfortunate planet's new moon. His father wouldn't know why there'd been a delay, just that there had been one, and Cerran would be damned before he'd apologize after he'd already been humiliated once this week. Especially given his current reception committee. Better the whole thing seemed like a planned slight. "Well then," he bowed low with a wide flourish, "lead on. I might not be able to find my way, otherwise."

"Captain?"

The tentative voice at his back made him straighten up quickly. Vosh surprised him and he'd forgotten to shut the airlock door. Corso's curiosity had obviously gotten the better of him.

Now he saw it all around his brother; the subtle gleam of malice was unmistakable. "Cerran. Aren't you going to introduce us?"

"No."

"I'm-"

He could picture Corso stepping forward, extending his hand in greeting. "Getting back on the ship. Now." He turned and looked at Corso over his shoulder, tipping his chin back towards the entrance. He hoped the unspoken threat of "Or I'll take your ass back to Ord Mantell and leave you there, farm boy" was implied. The absolute last thing he needed was for the other man to find out Vosh was family. He wasn't bright, but it wouldn't take a degree in rock science to figure out what the two being related meant and no one outside of Ship knew his secret. Which probably meant Skavak knew now, too. '_Shit._' Today just kept getting better and better.

Not bright didn't equate to being stupid. "I'm just a holocall away if you need me."

The other man re-entered the ship as he commanded. If only Corso wasn't so _karking_ … well. His compromise was to take the Mantellian along with him when he left the other man's home planet. Cerran told himself it was because he deserved an equal piece of Skavak's hide when they finally caught up with him. Not because he was attracted to the other man, or even liked him all that much. It was purely a business arrangement. '_Yeah, right - and my father's called me home to welcome me back into the fold. The prodigal son returns. If it weren't for bad luck, I'd have no luck at all, I swear._' Not entirely true, but most of the time that's what it felt like.

He and his brother began walking towards the shuttles. "Do you _need_ him very often, then?" Vosh asked, as he led him through the forgotten maze of the spaceport that he'd once known like the back of his hand. His brother was taking his job as a guide seriously, at least on the surface. While Cerran wouldn't have gotten lost, it was easy to get turned around here and with so many sounds coming from all directions – engines flared to life or grumbled to a stop, mechanics yelled to be heard over the noise, droids were stationed at every entrance and exit, repeating the automated message Ship broadcast and offering their services as porters to anyone going to Tython – it would have become easy to become tangled in his own distorted perceptions when at best his world was represented by dim shadows in varying shades of gray.

Vosh would also tattle the entire tale of their meeting to his father as soon as they reached the compound. Well, let him. What difference could it possibly make at this point? Undoubtedly, he'd given something away when Corso appeared. Probably read him like a teenager's unlocked datapad. That's what he always would be to his family; a rebellious, misfit child. Fine. He may as well act the part.

Cerran's lips quirked up in a self-satisfied smirk. "Every damn day." Let his brother make of _that_ what he would.

* * *

Author's Note: This is a rough continuation of "And the Chiss ran away with the Spoon", another story which utilizes my characters from Star Wars: The Old Republic. The first was with Sandor, my Imperial Agent and now we have his opposite number: Cerran, the Republic Smuggler. Two down, two (or maybe three, but that seems unlikely - the Sandor/Hunter story probably won't see the light of day) to go.

Thanks to Stevie Wonder for inspiration on the story's title, the Wermo guide for sparing use of Huttese and Wookieepidia for all other things Star Wars related that I simply didn't know enough about and had to look up.

The universe belongs to George Lucas, Corso Riggs to Bioware, Cerran, Keluin and the rest of the Capel clan to me and Ysmena to my best friend **jenovan**. She has some great SWTOR stories posted on her account, as well as Dragon Age: Origins ones that are so good they'll make you wish she'd just publish a book already. Read them; you don't even need to thank me later. We continue to level up together but our characters' personalities never seem to mesh very well. Likely her DA:O character Alessar would turn the tables on my mage and have him executed, so it all equals out in the end.

Cerran and I thank you for taking the time to read his story. I haven't truly proofread it and combed for errors (for a change, I'm just throwing caution to the wind), so if something's amiss, it's all on me. If you're so inclined, please feel free to review; a critique is as valued as praise.


	2. Sealed

He ended up cooling his heels in his father's outer office for well over an hour. Vosh left him in the antechamber, opening the door to the inner sanctum and leaving him to his own devices. His brother's abandonment glued him to his seat. Cerran had no desire to go poking around in the place he once called home. Who knew what other memories he'd find? Despite what he'd said earlier, he had no desire to encounter his other siblings. Well, maybe Daphine. His older sister stuck up for him occasionally, and so endeared herself to him somewhat.

He sat in high-backed chair with a thinly padded cushion and wished for somewhere to prop up his feet. The only other visitor, a young padawan dressed in robes he knew were scratchy like the coarse coats of Endorian goats, abandoned whatever errand sent her to one of the leaders of the Luka Sene on Tython upon seeing him.

"I'm not as disreputable as I look," he called after her, listening to the scurry of her woven slippers on the marble floor. Here, it was quiet; a meditative tranquility that begged for a primal scream just to wake the world up.

The room was decorated with austere opulence, but the finery wasn't anything he could appreciate. His family was important and even with the purported vows of poverty, there was something to be said for making an impression and his father and mother needed to do that, given their standing both within the Jedi Order and among his own people. He knew, from having been told, there was a tapestry of Alpheridies and the Veil, as well as a bust and portrait of Visas Marr. He plucked at the seat's cushion, and wondered idly what color it was. '_Brown,_' he thought, as he found a loose thread and tugged on it; the stitching unraveled. '_Brown, brown, brown._'

"Master Keluin Capel will see you now." Vosh's reminder he wasn't to call the man on the other side of the door "Father" wasn't necessary. Cerran knew better, but that didn't mean he wouldn't do it anyway.

His father sat behind a large desk, made out of some sort of natural wood that felt slick to the touch. Even the furniture here had a long, rich history, like everything else on Tython. There were no chairs here for visitors, so he was forced to remain standing. He knew cartel bosses with less subtlety.

His father continued to scratch away at whatever he was writing, without looking up.

"You will explain to me your clothing."

The demand caught him flatfooted. "Well… I bought them… I got them…" Where had he purchased them? When was the last time he'd shopped for clothes? Did he want to know how much they cost?

The other man sighed. "Explain to me why," he paused, "you are dressed as an Aspirant."

'_Damn, damn, damn._' It wasn't anything he thought about on a daily basis, but he'd left Tython with very little. Over the years, he'd replaced the clothing, but with no fashion sense to speak of, he'd simply gone into the appropriate shops and asked for things that looked similar. Ship confirmed it when he brought his purchases home, to ensure he wasn't putting on some garish clash of orange and green. The bindings, straps and buckles were familiar; it meant he didn't need to ask for help when he forgot about a zipper – an embarrassing lesson he learned the hard way. And it had been hard, to emphasize the word's dual meaning. Almost as difficult as having the painful realization that his mother had been indirectly dressing him for the last twenty nine years.

"Am I? It's all the rage on Zeltros." Mentioning the pleasure planet was a sure way to get his father to drop the subject. "I mean, normally, they wear next to nothing. And that was fun, for a while. Zoosha pants leave little to the imagination – did you know? – but there's something about a thin, transparent scrap of fabric between your thighs, knowing everyone can see but not quite touch. I walked around the practically the entire capital with a permanent h–"

"Enough."

"I can go change into them. Practice makes perfect when it comes to controlling your baser urges. I remember Sorcha Branteros saying something like that over and over in her classes. Does she still teach? I could show her just how much I've learned. Sit through an entire class without my c–"

"Enough."

"–twitching once." His father put down his pen. '_Score one for Team Cerran._' "Did you ask me here to discuss the current galactic trends, Father? No? Then let's get down to business." He never thought he'd be saying this aloud, and he doubted the other man ever thought he'd be in a situation to hear it. "What is it you want from me?" He didn't have enough fingers and toes to enumerate the things his father probably wanted from his youngest son, things he would never be capable of. His genetics going horribly wrong was something his mother hadn't foreseen. If she had, it was unlikely he'd be standing here now, mouthing off to the man on the other side of the desk.

His father finally looked up from his paperwork. Cerran could almost hear the wheels of his mind turning, but he still didn't speak.

"I met this sweet little piece with the smoothest skin while I was there. She smelled like–" His jaw suddenly clamped shut. It felt like it was held in place by steel bands. Rather than fighting it, he ground his teeth together, feeling the muscles tense. '_The away team remains in the lead with the current score of two zero._'

"If I cannot have your compliance, I will have your silence." Keluin stood; he rested his hands on the desk and leaned forward. "You will listen and then depart. I have summoned you because of a promising young Padawan named Ysmena Havarr. She has been tasked with a mission of some difficulty and it is my will that she have someone to act – nominally – as her guide. Your true role will be to prevent a mishap due to her own naiveté; she trusts too easily and wants to believe the forces of good will always prevail if enough kindness is shown."

Cerran felt the iron grip on his jaw loosen. "And?"

"What she does – whatever she does – you will report it back to me."

"You want me to _spy_ on her?"

"There is a need to be apprised of her actions – both her successes and her failures. She will come to despise you and what you stand for very quickly, I have no doubt. With you at her side, she _will_ learn to control that anger rather than allowing it to control her."

The Council's need – or the Luka Sene's? "No." He could feel the Jedi Master's stunned incredulity at his answer. Cerran wished he could see the other man's expression. "The universe doesn't run on charity. You want someone to shepherd your timid little lamb and be held up as a hedonistic example of all that's wrong in the galaxy, find someone else. Because I didn't hear the magic words."

"Magic words?"

His father sounded like a keon. "Just four: I. Will. Pay. You. Credits work, but if you want to unload some of these _fine_ antiques," Cerran drawled, waving a hand and gesturing towards the room's decorations, "I can find a buyer. You'd be surprised what some people will pay for this Jedi junk."

"You want money."

"Everything has a price, Father. Including me. And look at that." He held his hand up, then curled each digit into his fist until only his middle finger was raised. "The price just went up."

"Because you have expenses."

"Exactly."

"A lifestyle to maintain. In order to take care of your ship and your… crew."

Cerran heard the minute pause and his brain started to scream a warning at him. What he lacked in sight, he made up for in preternatural reflexes and survival instinct and it was telling him now – RIGHT NOW – to turn tail and run. Instead, he stubbornly stood his ground. '_Not just a fool, a damn fool. But I won't do this for nothing. I'll make him pay._' The line between credits and plain, old-fashioned revenge was getting pretty blurred, though. "You got it." He crossed his arms, since he couldn't go for his blaster, even though he itched to do so. The gun was a gift from Corso and it weighed heavily on his belt right now; whatever his father planned wouldn't just affect him anymore. Was he ready to consign the Mantellian to being a casualty in his familial war?

"You will require a contract."

"I will require a contract."

His father pushed the piece of paper he had been writing across the desk and offered his son his pen. "I'm sure you'll find everything is in order."

"I'm sure everything is in order." Cerran stepped forward, took the pen and signed the document. He slid the two items back to his father.

"There's just the matter of your thumbprint and retinal scan. Oh, wait." He felt the mechanical click as his visor detached from his temples, flying across the room and into Keluin's waiting hand. The compulsion to cover his face made Cerran's arms tremble but they remained glued at his sides. "How long have you pretended to be human, boy? You degrade your people even now, as if your existence wasn't enough of an insult to us. I almost expected implants when I removed this, but you still move in the same, overly cautious way you always did. I expect the humans believe you are simply vigilant." There was a tinny crunch as the cybernetic implant crumpled in his father's grip. "What will the scum you comport with think, if they discover you are blind? A two-bit smuggler who couldn't tell a shipment of toy guns from the real thing without the help of his ship's AI? I imagine your reputation, such as it is, would suffer a heavy blow. If they do not kill you for lying to them all these years. Trust is a priceless commodity in your line of work."

The Jedi Master came out from behind his desk and stood face-to-face with his son. Keluin Capel was a physically intimidating man, taller by several inches and heavily built, compared to Cerran's lithe frame. "And what about your ship-bound lapdog, the one with so much bark? Have you told him? I think not, not if what Vosh has told me is true. He sounds quite devoted to you. If any good comes from your association, I can say truthfully that I am thankful you've spared us the shame of choosing a partner with whom you can breed."

Cerran's father walked around behind him. He reached out and gently caressed his son's hair. He took a few strands and twirled them between his fingertips. "And this… This simply will not do." When the older man finished his next sentence, Cerran slumped bonelessly to the floor.

* * *

Author's Note: Thanks to Stevie Wonder for inspiration on the story's title, the Wermo guide for sparing use of Huttese and Wookieepidia for all other things Star Wars related that I simply didn't know enough about and had to look up.

The universe belongs to George Lucas, Corso Riggs to Bioware, Cerran, Keluin and the rest of the Capel clan to me and Ysmena to my best friend jenovan.

Cerran and I thank you for taking the time to read his story. I haven't truly proofread it and combed for errors (for a change, I'm just throwing caution to the wind), so if something's amiss, it's all on me. If you're so inclined, please feel free to review; a critique is as valued as praise.


	3. Delivered

Cerran woke in his bunk. His head was full of staticky white noise, like the hung-over aftermath of too much Thwill-wine. He reached up to rub his face and… Nothing. There was nothing there; his face was bare. He sat up in a panic and fumbled for the recessed compartment below the bed, falling off the side with the sheets tangled around his legs. The drawer, yanked off its rollers, pulled free and hit him in the chest. He tasted blood in his mouth where he'd bitten his tongue. Groping, he found what he was looking for and only began breathing again when he heard the magnetic hum initialize and felt the familiar weight settle above the bridge of his nose. It was like waking up from every bad dream he'd ever had; his heart thumped in his chest like he'd just won a foot race or a firefight. He flung the drawer aside and it crashed against the wall, scattering its remaining contents onto the floor. He hadn't taken the visor off since the painful procedure and wasn't sure why he'd woken up without it on.

"Ship." His voice was a croak. "SHIP!"

"Captain. Estimated arrival time to Coruscanti space is fifty three hours, three minutes. Would you like me to prepare a shower?"

His head was pounding. "Coruscant? Who in the three worst hells gave the order to go to Coruscant? I told you – why did you listen to him? When I get ahold of Corso, I'll wring his neck!"

The ship's vox was unperturbed. "You gave the order, Captain."

"I don't care what planet is closest, if it's got a breathable atmosphere, take us there. This is as far as farm boy goes. Wait, what? I did what?"

"You gave the order, Captain. At seventeen hundred, Tythonian time. Upon your arrival back aboard, you instructed me to make the necessary preparations and that I was not to engage the hyperdrive until you awoke. You then toggled on the "Do Not Disturb" mode for your cabin, blocking further communication. I judged enough time had elapsed that I would be permitted override several hours ago and did so."

The ship's intelligence continued. "Passenger Corso has requested that he be notified when woke up. As you gave no countermand that I should not obey secondary directives that did not relate directly to my primary function, I have informed him you are awake."

Cerran leaned back against the side of his bed. The metal was warm against his bare skin; his head was still pounding and felt oddly light. "Fine, yeah, whatever." The last thing he remembered was talking to his father. Giving him the middle finger, in point of fact. Had the conversation gone so badly he'd gone out and gotten drunk afterwards?

"Captain. Captain?"

"WHAT."

"Priority transmission was received from Jedi Master Keluin Capel on transmitter frequency naught naught four seven niner upon departure."

The keywords triggered his memories and brought the day's previous events back into focus with sickening clarity.

'_A contract. I signed a contract._' He felt his gorge rise and swallowed. If he vomited, he'd be the one on his hands and knees cleaning it up. Skavak dismantled C2-N2 and left nothing but the droid's head on top of a box in the storage bay. For lack of anything better to do, he'd left it there and now… His legs were too shaky to stand. He drew his legs up, folded his arms and rested his head on his knees. "Summarize the contents."

He knew what his father had done.

"As elective emissary for Master Capel, you are entered into indentured servitude and obliged to carry out his directives or forfeit the title of XS Freighter, personal designation 'Ship' to the nearest Republic outpost. A bounty will be posted if contractual terms are not met and you fail to surrender peaceably. Disobedience will also transfer said contract to Erewhon Incorporated; once in custody, you will be allocated to one of their holdings on Sevarcos II, Ryloth or Kessel, subject to business-based need, for the remainder of your life."

He couldn't cry, so he laughed instead. It sounded maniacal and echoed around the mostly empty room, as sure as he'd been in a prison cell. "Should I hope for Kessel? It would be the quickest death."

The question was rhetorical but the AI responded. "Affirmative. Average lifetime expectancy on planet Kessel is two-point-seven galactic years with a probability of repeated disfigurement or loss of limb or limbs in the ninety-eighth percentile." There was a pause. "I am sorry, Captain."

Who could he tell? His mother would believe him, but she would never stand against her husband in front of any recognized authority – the Jedi Council or otherwise – and admit that Keluin Capel used his powers against his son and forced him to sign away his life and livelihood. His word against a respected member of the Jedi Order? He felt the crazed laughter bubble up again and choked it down.

Why now? Why this woman? Because his father needed time. Time to let Cerran establish himself. Given just enough money when his mother him sent off-planet to allow him to be clever and put to good use his few natural assets, successfully living a lie for more than a decade. But which lie? '_The one where I passed for human and made something of myself, or the one where I believed my family had forgotten about me?_'

It was too much. So when the door chimed, he answered automatically. "Enter."

The door slid open, the cabin lights snicked on with a fluorescent flicker and Corso stood, silhouetted in the hallway. The visor didn't provide him with improved vision, or any vision whatsoever, despite its intended purpose. It was purely cosmetic; everything remained shades of black and white, without the finite details a normal member of his species could have seen. Just now, he was looking through the Mantellian anyway, back to Tython and his father's office where this all began.

"Ship says we're headed to Coruscant. I sure can't wait to see Galactic City. I hear you can rent a skycar, fly all day, and still not see the whole city. That makes it a mighty big place. You think we'll find a lead there, on where Skavak went, Captain?"

Skavak. The man was light years away from his thoughts right now. When he'd taken Ship on Ord Mantell, Cerran thought he couldn't hate anyone as much as he hated the other man. Was that only a week ago? How wrong he'd been about that.

'_You thought you were so _karking_ smart._' He knew it was a trap going into it, and he still treated it like a twisted sort of homecoming. Let down his guard when it was the last place he should have ever felt at ease. How many times had his older brothers and sisters tried to kill him by flexing their control of the Force? He'd climbed a tree and tried to fly like a hood hawk, nearly drowned believing he could breathe water and been caught in an uxibeast stampede.

"Viidu said you knew just about everyone worth knowin'. I bet with all those people helping us, we'll have him tracked down in no time flat. Can't wait to see the look on his face when he realizes we got one over on him."

Lot of good being famous – infamous – would do him now. He could just imagine asking someone like Drooga for help. The fat Feastmaster would chortle and gurgle over the novelty of Cerran's humiliation and then agree to make him disappear – for a price. His lifespan might be longer, but only until the Hutt decided he didn't need his new "pet" and put him into the gladiator pits. Then he'd only last as long as his blaster had charges, and there were some species who could take the hits and keep on coming. At that point, there was only so much running a guy could do.

How would Trin Coral react if he showed up on her doorstep? The diminutive Nautolan would crack the door – if she opened it at all – and stare up at him, her nictitating membranes flexing over large, disbelieving eyes at seeing him in the flesh. As far as he knew, she never left her belowground apartment and never met anyone in person. She was a brilliant slicer but preferred machines to people and conducted all her business via HoloNet.

Rats and rabbits. It described every single person he knew.

"It'll sure feel good, won't it, Captain. He took a chunk out of us, but I bet he never expected us to turn around and bite back."

Even rabbits had teeth.

Cerran was a thief and a liar, with no morals to speak of and those assets would serve him well in this campaign. The contract? Just a datafile. Files could be wiped clean with the right spike into a computer's core. The physical evidence would be more difficult but by no means impossible. A fire or explosion didn't distinguish between important and unimportant – flammable meant fuel.

Corso's simple commentary reminded him of what he was – a survivor. He survived it all. On Tython, and since. Shoved into a corner, he would fight. The riffraff his father disdained owed him favors and he'd never had a reason to call in those markers, until now. And he'd handed Cerran his most powerful weapon on a silver platter: the padawan his father was so concerned about.

He'd shadow her, as ordered. Protect her. Protect her from people like himself. Save her life, even if the credits that paid for the attempts on it were his own. And when the time came, and he needed her, she'd owe him. That vaunted Jedi morality and her lofty ideals about balance would come into play. If Keluin Capel was right, she had just enough dark side in her to agree to do as he asked. Cerran would use her to get what he wanted and he wanted his father very, very dead.

"Absolutely. He'll never see us coming."

His response apparently satisfied the Mantellian. "Ship says the manual sights on the lateral laser turrets are off. Figured I'd put my hand in, see if I can work out the kinks." The human turned to go, then turned back. "Uh, Captain?"

"Hmm?"

"That's a… new look for you."

His heart skipped a beat before he remembered the implant was in place. He was sitting on the floor, naked, with sheets tangled around his ankles. '_Well, well._' He could be coy, if the occasion called for it. "Like what you see?" A good, fierce fuck would be just what he needed right now.

Corso laughed. "You're no match for the nerfs back on the ranch." Cerran frowned but, still chuckling, the other man left without an explanation. The door closed behind him.

"No match for…" Cerran said aloud to the vacated room. What did Corso expect? Surely he didn't mean that back home he'd… ugh, no – just no. His hand dropped into his lap and he stroked himself in reassurance. He'd never received any complaints before, not even as a parting shot during a bad break-up. Given the number of people who'd seen him in various states of undress, if he was lacking in any department, surely someone would have said something before now. He rolled his shoulders and tilted his head back against his bunk, unperturbed about alleviating his tension on his own.

His outcry of surprise turned into a curse as his hands flew to his scalp, feeling the uneven, bristly ends of his hair; once long, now reduced to tiny, upright spikes with the texture of artificial grass. His erection deflated as he realized now what he'd been sitting on because the floor was covered in it: a fine feathery layer of his own hair in the handsome chestnut color he'd been told made him look like a holomovie star.

"Ship," he said through gritted teeth, "what does my father look like?"

As the ship's computer described a father he had never seen, paralleling the resemblance between the two men, he made himself another promise. Keluin could deny it all he wanted, but Cerran was – perhaps more than any of his other children – more like his father than the other man wanted to admit. '_Not my father's son, not ever again._' "What do we have on board," he asked, with acid in his voice, "that we can use to make me a blond?"

* * *

Author's Note: Thanks to Stevie Wonder for inspiration on the story's title, the Wermo guide for sparing use of Huttese and Wookieepidia for all other things Star Wars related that I simply didn't know enough about and had to look up.

The universe belongs to George Lucas, Corso Riggs to Bioware, Cerran, Keluin and the rest of the Capel clan to me and Ysmena to my best friend jenovan.

Cerran and I thank you for taking the time to read his story. I haven't truly proofread it and combed for errors (for a change, I'm just throwing caution to the wind), so if something's amiss, it's all on me. If you're so inclined, please feel free to review; a critique is as valued as praise.


End file.
